{Author's Note: I honestly don't know what happened to the rest of April, but we are where—or when?—we are.}
Erik—thirty seconds away from just throwing Peter over his shoulder or picking him up bridal style to stop him from injuring himself further—looked up to see Hank standing in the doorway, completely baffled by the scene before him. His clothes were rumpled, yet still consisted of his typical collared shirts and formerly pressed slacks, suggesting he'd fallen asleep in the lab and had yet to make it to bed.
"Hank-the-Tank!" Peter exclaimed brightly, momentarily distracted from the pain in his foot. "What are you doing up, dude? Come to join the festivities?"
"I got caught up in some work in the lab and fell asleep at my desk." Hank replied, confirming Erik's suspicion. "I thought I heard voices when I was heading up to bed. What's going on? What's happened? What did you do to your foot? Did you two drink all of these?"
"Nope! Just me! Mags wouldn't join in." Said Peter with an exaggerated pout that quickly turned into a grimace as he unwisely tried to put his foot down again. "But you can join if you want!"
Hank just stared dumbly at the amount of empty bottles scattered across the floor.
"Hank." Said Erik, drawing the other man's attention to the metal bender who was still attempting to usher Peter from the mess he had created without the younger man further injuring himself. Peter, on the other hand, was making the job rather difficult, as he kept trying to squirm out of Erik's hold. It was unclear if he was trying to get another drink or take his leave of the situation, but either way, he wasn't doing much to help Erik keep him upright. "We need to take care of his foot; can you please help me out here."
"Right." Said Hank after a moment, shaking himself from his stupor and coming over to support Peter from his other side—carefully stepping around the broken glass—so that in the end Peter had one arm around Erik and another around Hank, whether he liked it or not.
"I don't know why you had me use crutches when I broke my leg, Hank, or, you know, when it was broken for me; I could've just used you guys." Peter joked as he held both his legs up off the ground between the two taller men for a moment, swinging them in the empty air—and dripping more blood on the ground—before suddenly cutting the acrobatic feat short and basically becoming dead weight between them. For a second, the unexpected shift in weight nearly threatened to topple the trio, but fortunately, Hank and Erik were quickly able to right themselves and Peter, given that either one of the former could have lifted Peter on their own if it came to that, though that probably would not have gone over well with the speedster.
"Let's take him to medbay. It'll be easier to manage his injury there." Said Hank guiding the three awkwardly out of the kitchen.
"Guys. Guys. You know what we need?!" Asked Peter, not waiting for either of his escorts to answer even as Hank attempted to shush him. "Some music! What did I do with my Walkman? Does this place have a boombox? No? 'ats o-kay. I can improvise. Once I rose above the noise and confusion. Just to get a glimpse beyooond the illuuuuusion. I was soaring ever higher, but I flew tooooo Hiiiiiigh."
"What brought this on?" Hank asked over Peter's continued impromptu singing, which Erik thought was surprisingly and almost astonishingly good—given both Peter's current state and in general—though he did not recognize the song. Hank addressed the question at Erik, obviously thinking Peter wasn't in a fit state to answer or at least was not paying either of the other two men half a mind, but nevertheless, Peter was still the one who responded.
"Life, Hank. Life." Peter replied, abruptly cutting his performance short. As he answered, he leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling—or at least the space above him—for no particular reason.
"I think the Summers boy said something to upset him." Erik added to Peter's rather vague response, when it was clear that the boy wasn't going to offer any further context. "He hasn't been forthcoming as to the details."
"Hank, Hank. You're really tall. Did you know that? I thought I was tall, or at least not short. Then I thought Erik was really tall, but you're like really, really tall, Hank." Peter interrupted as they exited out of the elevator into the school's underground halls and headed toward medbay. He gazed up at Hank's forehead in concentration, as if he were trying to mentally measure the vertical distance between them.
"Yes, well, we are all above average height." Said Hank diplomatically to Peter, as he and Erik carefully deposited Peter onto the nearest bed. Then to Erik, "I'll ask Charles to have a word with Scott tomorrow."
Peter flopped back on the bed, so that he was looking up at the ceiling again like it might hold the secrets of the universe.
"Well that sounds like a horrible idea, so definitely don't do that. Also, tell me truth, Hank. Is this the end? Am I going to bleed out?" Peter asked dramatically.
"I wouldn't worry about that, Peter." Said Hank, lifting Peter's injured foot to see the extent of the damage, which, surprisingly, the speedster did not protest, and ignoring Peter's clear distaste at the thought of Charles 'talking' to Scott about whatever had transpired between them. "Not while Erik's here."
"What?" Erik asked in a strangled sort of way. He knew (from personal experience) that Peter was nowhere close to being at risk of hemorrhagic shock. And if he were, Erik would be much more stressed than he already was. But what did Hank think that had to do with Erik, unless he knew . . .
. . . but he couldn't possibly . . .
"You two have the same blood type." Hank clarified, seeing both Erik and Peter's confusion, but oblivious to Erik's internal panic.
"Oh. Yea that tracks." Said Peter, nodding as he lay his head back again after having lifted it at Hank's statement.
Hank gave Erik a brief curious look at Peter's response, but he didn't say anything further about that fact, and Erik also refrained from commenting. Instead, Hank went back to the task at hand.
"You've got a good amount of glass in here, Peter. I'd offer you some pain meds or numbing medicine before I work to remove it, but we both know from the experience with your broken leg that normal methods of pain relief will be ineffective for you, and with everything that's been going on with getting the school back up and running, I haven't developed a proper medication dosage for you yet, and I'm not inclined to guess. It's actually quite interesting that you were able to consume enough alcohol to affect you the way it has. Do you know exactly how much you consumed? And how quickly? Did you eat much today? Perhaps you were able to feel an effect due to the combination of—"
"Hank." Erik interrupted crossly. "He's not a science experiment. Would you hold your questions until you've taken care of my—until you've dealt with Peter's foot."
"Of course. Right, sorry. I'll go gather some supplies. Peter, don't you dare go anywhere. Try to stay still, or at least prepare yourself to be ready to do so when I come back." Said Hank patting Peter—who had sat up again—gently, twice on the shoulder.
"For you, specs, I'll try. But only for you." Said Peter kicking his legs back and forth again where they hung over the edge of the bed, even as blood dripped from one of his feet.
"Thanks for that. Now, regardless of your caloric intake earlier today—or, I guess it's yesterday at this point—you should eat something too." Hank said over his shoulder from across the room, "Erik, his protein bars in the top drawer there."
"Meh, those things are gross." Said Peter, pulling a face. "No offense, Hank, but you're not a baker. They taste like cardboard."
"None taken, Peter, but those things will literally help you get back on your feet, so I strongly recommend that you push past my lack of culinary expertise. You are already a bit below what I would estimate as a healthy weight for you, and I rather not see you drop any further. I'll try doubling the peanut butter in the next batch to see if that improves the taste at all." Said Hank as he dug through a cupboard.
Peter frowned, but still accepted a bar from Erik when he held one out for him.
"Too bad I'm only allergic to strawberries and not peanuts or you wouldn't be able to make me eat these." Said Peter, eyeing the bar with mild disgust and a bit like it was going to attack him.
"You're allergic to strawberries? You should really let me know these things. That needs to go in your file." Hank replied, taking a moment to make a note to himself on a pad of paper.
"I have a file?" Peter asked. "I thought those kind of things ended after graduation. I mean, I guess the cops would have a file on me if they ever managed to catch me in the act, but so far no dice."
"Everyone has a file, Peter. It's important to know your health history and the important nuances of your mutation, in case you get hurt—again." Hank said as he gathered his supplies.
"Does Erik have a file?" Peter asked, looking over at his father, headed tilted as he asked the question.
"Yes." Hank replied in the affirmative at the same time Erik responded with a no.
"Whoops. You better destroy that file Hank." Said Peter with a smirk before he took a large bite out of the protein bar despite his previous reluctance, perhaps he was taking the 'quick like ripping off a Band-Aid approach' to the food because by the time Hank—who didn't dignify Peter's comment with a response—had pulled up a stool in front of Peter with his supplies, Peter had finished two of the bars.
His son's gift really was remarkable, Erik thought, even when displayed in such a mundane form.
"This will likely be a little unpleasant." Said Hank, looking at Peter over the top of his glasses as he sat before him.
"Dude, I've had my leg snapped like a toothpick, a little bit of glass is like a paper cut compared to that." Said Peter, as he crumpled up one of the wrappers from Hank's specially made protein bars and tossed it toward the trash across the room. It landed dead center in the basket, and Erik was once again impressed.
"Fair point." Said Hank as he set to work.
"Wait. Is there really nothing you can give him for the pain?" Erik asked concerned, as he watched his at one time friend and occasional enemy about to dig into his son's jagged flesh with little more than a tweezers.
"I could give him normal meds, but I already told you, it won't make an impact. We both found that out pretty quickly with his leg." Hank replied unfazed.
In response, Peter shuddered. "Don't remind me, man."
"I see. . . . Do you want another one?" asked Erik, feeling fairly useless add he offered Peter a third protein bar.
"I didn't want the first two, so thanks but no thanks." Said Peter with a wave.
"He could do with some water, Erik." Said Hank, as he picked a piece of glass from Peter's foot. To his credit, Peter only winced slightly.
"I think the damaged is done, doc." Peter replied with a grimace, while he kicked Hank, more or less accidentally, as the latter dug out a another piece of glass from his foot. "And you guys know I'm right here, right? You could ask me if I want water."
"Just . . . humour me, please, Peter." Hank replied with a small smile, despite the recent kick to the gut.
"Whatever." Said Peter, laying down to stare at the ceiling again. "As long as I don't have to eat any more of those bars."
Erik, feeling wholly inadequate for not anticipating his son's needs, went over to the sink to grab Peter a glass of water. Yes, it took him a bit to figure out how to be a parent to Nina after not having a child to be a father to for some time, but this was different. Peter wasn't an infant who wouldn't remember if he made mistakes in the first few months they got to know each other. Every mistake Erik made—big or small—would be burned into Peter's memory forever.
While Erik was busy with his task, Hank slowly began to pick another piece of glass from the speedster's foot.
In response, Peter jerked, and Hank had to pause his work for a moment.
"Are you alright, Peter? Do you need a break?" he asked pushing his glasses back up his nose from where they had slid down his face.
"No." Peter replied curtly.
"No—you're not alright? Or no—you don't need a break?" Hank asked.
"Yes." Peter replied unhelpfully.
Hank sighed. "Work with me a bit here, Peter. How are you doing?"
Hank's question seemed to touch some sort of nerve because Peter's face changed from one of resigned disinterest to abject hopelessness.
"Hank?" Peter asked quietly.
"Yes, Peter?" Hank asked, looking down at the younger man who had yet to sit back up.
Peter took a deep breath, and then asked almost desperately, "What's wrong with me, man?"
At that, Hank glanced over at Erik for a moment who stood awkwardly with the glass of water in one hand, not sure whether to offer it to Peter or set it down on the table beside him. "You stepped on glass," Hank replied patiently—like he was used to students forgetting what brought them to the infirmary in the first place—as he dropped his gaze and prepared to resume his work. "You have glass in your foot. I have to remove it. Remember?"
The question worried Erik, though he was not yet sure exactly why. Perhaps Peter was more intoxicated than he thought, but, unlike Hank, Erik didn't truly allow himself to believe that his son was really asking about his physical injury.
"Nonononono, I know that, dude." Peter replied, frustrated, like Hank should be able to read his mind. "That's what's wrong with my foot. What's wrong with me?"
At that, Hank stopped what he was doing, and looked up at the younger man who had risen again, so that he was propped up on his elbow and could make eye contact with the scientist.
"Nothing's wrong with you Peter." Said Erik, finally mustering up the courage to butt in before Hank could respond.
"Pffft. Nah there's always been something wrong with me. Too fast. Too slow. Too freaky. Always something." Said Peter, taking the glass of water from Erik rather forcefully and chugging it one gulp. Once finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, carelessly setting the glass on the edge of the bed, forcing Erik to grab it quickly before Peter knocked it off when he laid back again.
"You are exactly who you are meant to be, Peter. It is the world that is wrong." Said Erik, and, in his continued moment of bravery, he grasped Peter's shoulder for a few seconds, not knowing how to comfort his son, not knowing how to convince him that the only reason Erik felt like he could breathe was because he existed, not knowing how to relay that everyday his son amazed him—and terrified him—a little more.
If it were Anya or Nina doubting their worth so completely, Erik would have gathered them in his arms and held them until their fears and self-doubt melted away completely.
But Peter wasn't Anya, and he wasn't Nina. And Erik didn't know how to give him what he needed. Erik didn't even know what he needed.
Erik realized that, in some ways, Peter was more fragile than either of youngest daughters. Though he didn't yet fully understand the source of his son's deep-rooted self-doubt and pain, it was easy to see that it ran deeper than anything his daughters' had experienced in their short lives. But that didn't make Peter weak. He was a survivor, just like himself. Or at least, that's what Erik had to believe because if he didn't, the weight of Erik's fear for his son would suffocate them both.
"Ugh, I love you man, but you're like a fortune cookie sometimes." Peter replied, throwing one arm over his eyes.
In that moment, Erik might as well have had his son's power, because the world stopped.
Erik knew that Peter didn't mean anything by it. He said it casually, like he would say it to anyone, anyone that was a friend, and Erik wasn't sure he could even count himself as that. But, truth be told, he didn't want to be Peter's friend.
He wanted to be his father.
But he knew he wasn't there yet, and maybe he never would be, so Erik understood that the comment didn't deserve the significance he had given it. For if it did, Hank would have done more than give Erik a quick glance. But still, he couldn't help it. He couldn't help but want to hold onto the moment in his mind—even as he son laid there in physical and emotional distress, even as he knew that for Peter the moment would pass by as any other—because it was the first time his twenty-seven year old son had told him he loved him.
And of course Erik hadn't yet expressed the same sentiment, not with those three small words anyway. Because the moment he did, the moment he formally acknowledged this gift the universe had given him, the only thing left was for the universe to take him away.
When it became clear that Erik wasn't—or couldn't—respond, Hank replied. "I think what Erik means to say is that there is something wrong with everyone, but most of the time it's not the thing you think is wrong with yourself."
"Greeeaaaaaat, so there's more things wrong with me than even I know. Cool." Said Peter, throwing his other arm over his face too, and then jerking when Hank pulled a particularly large piece of glass from his foot. He seemed twitch for several seconds after, though Erik wasn't sure if that was a lingering response to the glass being pulled from his foot or an effect of his powers and his body's instinctive urge to flee.
"That's not what I meant." Said Hank with a frown, stopping his work on Peter's foot again. "Take me for example, I've always thought that my physical mutation was something to be ashamed of, but my fatal flaw is actually hubris. If I'd realized that sooner, I wouldn't be at the mercy of my meds to maintain my appearance, and the only thing I would have to hide would be my feet."
"You do not have to be ashamed or hide any part of who you are, Hank." Erik jumped in immediately. "If others cannot accept you, that's their problem, not yours."
In response to Erik's words of wisdom, Hank merely glared at the other man and went back to working on Peter's foot, but the youngest mutant wasn't about to remain silent.
"Spoken like someone who doesn't have a physical mutation." Peter said and as he responded, he uncovered his face, seemingly solely so Erik could see the eye roll he gave him. "So you weren't always blue?" Peter continued before Erik could respond to his retort. "I mean, I know you can like control it now, but that wasn't your original mutation?"
"No," Hank responded, shaking his head. "My mutation initially only affected my feet, but I . . . I attempted to cure myself of that physical manifestation. Unfortunately, instead of curing myself, I only amplified my condition."
"You had nothing to cure." said Erik frustrated. "There is nothing wrong with mutants. We are the cure."
Once more, Hank ignored Erik and his soap box—perhaps understanding that, in the right circumstances, it was sometimes just better to let Erik go unchallenged—but once again, Peter made his thoughts on the matter clear.
"Not everybody wants to stand out all the freakin' time, Erik." Said Peter, pressing the heel of one hand to his forehead, as if he were trying to push a headache—or a memory—from his mind. His eyes were closed, lids scrunched tightly shut. "Some people just want to—I don't know—not have target on their back—or beacon on their head—every time they leave their home."
"Peter—" Erik started, taking a step closer to his son, but he was stopped and silenced by Peter, who took his hand from his head and placed his palm against Erik's torso instead, stopping him in his tracks.
"Just don't, okay?" Peter said as he dropped his hand from his father's chest after a second and opened his eyes again, but when he did, his gaze fell on Hank, not Erik. "Hank, I never thought to ask before, but do you want a different codename? Like if Beast is offensive, we don't have to call you that." Said Peter, grabbing the sides of the bed to sit up and leaning forward a bit as he did.
"That's very thoughtful of you, Peter," Hank replied, as he wiped some more blood from Peter's foot, causing the boy to flinch. "But I don't mind it . . . Raven gave me the name." Hank added with a clear air fondness in his voice.
At that, Peter perked up a bit, a ghost of a smile emerging on his face. "Uh oh," said Peter, looking over at Erik. "Looks like you've got some competition old man."
"What?" Hank asked alarmed, looking between the metal bender and the speedster.
"Nothingnothing. My sister gave me the name Quicksilver." Said Peter, thankfully quickly redirecting before Hank could think too much about his comment; then, he added with less cheer, "I called her Scarlet Witch."
"Those are good names." Said Hank. He didn't ask Peter about the obvious use of the past-tense when he referred to his sister. Maybe he hadn't noticed, but Erik doubted that was the case. More likely than not, Hank—with his notes and files—knew better than most that the majority of the students who came to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters had a tragic backstory, and if they wanted to share it, they would do so without prompting.
Or, perhaps Peter had confided in Hank in ways that he had not done with Erik.
The latter thought sent a spike of undeserved resentment toward Hank running through Erik's body. He quickly pushed it away, reminding himself that Hank was helping his son, and, at the moment, Erik had no reason to feel ill-will toward him.
Erik wanted to ask Peter about Wanda, wanted to know more about the daughter who he would never meet, who dubbed his son Quicksilver and earned the title Scarlet Witch.
But he didn't.
Because it wasn't his place to ask . . . . and maybe it never would be.
"How long will it take his foot to heal?" Erik asked instead because that was a safe question, one that wouldn't delve into the years and years he had been absent from his son's life.
At Erik's question, Peter's mood shifted dramatically, and he giggled, for a moment reminding Erik painfully of his daughters. "Heal. Heel. Haha foot humour."
"Well," said Hank, ignoring Peter's antics. "Given how well he bounced back from the leg break—despite his repeated disregard for my instructions—" Hank paused, giving Peter a pointed look. "I'd say he'll be good to go in 48 to 72 hours. Perhaps, faster if he doesn't overwork himself."
In response, Peter leaned back against the pillow behind him. He crossed his arms across his chest and narrowed his eyes at Hank.
There was something so Nina about the action that Erik had to look away.
"You can't stop the machine, Hank. I'm on 24/7, 365." Said Peter.
"Be that as it may, Peter, even the best machine needs maintenance every once in a while or eventually it will become irreparable." Said Hank, all business.
"Hmmmph." Peter replied, rolling onto his stomach without warning, putting his face into the pillow and curling his arms underneath it.
"Well, I think I've done all I can here. I'll start some of the cleanup upstairs and then I'm turning in." Said Hank as he pulled a final piece of glass from Peter's foot, sanitized the wound, and finished bandaging Peter's foot. Then he turned to Erik, gesturing for him to come closer so they could speak with the illusion of privacy. "You'll make sure he gets some rest? I really don't think any of us can handle him sustaining another injury."
Erik's eyes drifted to Peter who, at Hank's comment, grumbled unintelligibly into his pillow.
"I'll . . . try." Said Erik, and for a second, he had the urge to tell Hank that Peter wasn't lying when he said there was no turning him off and that sleep had and would continue to allude him. But he wouldn't break Peter's trust that way, so, reluctantly, he let the other man leave without further comment.
Once the lab doors closed behind Hank, Erik walked over to Peter's bedside.
At the sound of his approach, Peter turned his head from the pillow, so that the near-black iris of one of his eyes was visible.
He stared at him unblinking for a moment, and then voiced a quiet question.
"Tired of me yet?"
Erik knew Peter intended it to come off as a joke. But Erik could tell there was real fear in the question.
"Never." Said Erik without a moment's hesitation.
"Right. Sure. Anyway, sorry I ruined your night." Said Peter, with more clarity than earlier that evening. The alcohol must be about through his system now.
"I've had much worse nights than this. Many of them in fact." Erik replied. It was the good nights that were hard to come by, and if not for the fact that his son was injured and intoxicated for most of it, it would be a good night if only because he got to spend it with his son .
"Yea well, I bet you never found any of your other kids in the middle of the night drinking themselves to oblivion though." Said Peter, turning his head back into the pillow, so that his face was hidden once more.
"No . . . I can't say that I have . . . though, I did catch Nina making a mess of her birthday cake the night before her fourth birthday. " Erik answered, thinking back on the night. As a parent, he probably should have been a little more responsible and scolded Nina for devouring half of her birthday cake and getting the remainder all over the kitchen. But he'd merely laughed. How could he be angry at her anyway when she'd apologized profusely—as much as an almost-four-year-old can—saying she was just too excited to wait, and besides, she'd learned her lesson herself about sneaking sweets by spending the first half of her birthday miserable with a tummy ache from her late night indulgence.
" 's not exactly d'same." Peter mumbled into his pillow.
"No, I suppose not." Said Erik with a sigh, pulling up a stool to sit by his son's bedside. "But who's to say what life would've driven them to had they had a chance to find out. . . . I do not enjoy seeing you in pain, but I'm glad you are here all the same, even if I am wholly incapable of being the father you deserve. And . . . I need you to know, Peter, I wouldn't trade you for my daughters. I do wish Nina and Anya were still here. That I could hold them in my arms again, that I could meet Wanda, I do. But if your life was the price to make that happen, I couldn't pay it. Never."
Peter didn't react to Erik's statement right away, but after a few seconds he rolled onto his back and looked over at his father.
"It's okay, Erik. You don't have to lie to make me feel better. I'd trade my life for Wanda's in a heartbeat." Said Peter, staring up at the ceiling, this time like he expected—or wanted it—to collapse on top of him.
"Peter. I'm not lying to you. I have done—and I'm sure I'll continue to do—a lot of things I am not proud of, but I will never lie to you." Erik said, leaning closer to Peter and grabbing his forearm firmly with one hand, and raising it into the air just high enough so that his sleeve slid down to reveal the bracelet Erik had crafted for him. "I told you when I gave this to you—and I will tell you every day if I have to—that you are important to me. One day, if you have children of your own, you will understand that asking a parent to choose the life of one of their children over another is like asking someone to cut out a part of their heart and expecting them to continue to live."
Erik waited, anticipating that Peter would react like he had when Erik had given him the refurbished locket—humble and surprised by how highly his father valued him—so when Peter reacted how he did, Erik was more than a little taken aback.
"Oh come on, you can't mean that. For as long as they were alive, you raised Anya and Nina. You knew everything about them. It's not the same with me. You might be coming around to the idea of me, but you don't really know me yet. You weren't around for the all the shit that got me to this point. I'm not blaming you for that. I know you didn't know about me—about us—but you can't truly expect me to believe that you wouldn't at least like to go back to living your life in Poland with your understanding wife and undamaged kid." Peter said, finally sitting up to face his father fully. "It's not like either of our wishes could ever happen anyway, so it's okay to admit it. I know you don't want me to drop dead or anything; I'm just saying, I get it."
Erik stared stone faced back at Peter, grey eyes meeting brown—nearly black—irises. "What I want, Peter, is a world where I have all of my children in my life. And no matter how much you press me on this, no matter how much you think you deserve to be unwanted, I will not give in and tell you the falsehood that your life means less to me than the lives of my daughters. I know you may not yet feel that I am father to you, and I'm still not sure I can ever fully be that for you. You had your own family and you didn't need me but—"
"I did need you though!" Peter nearly shouted, vibrating slightly now. "Wanda and I both did! We didn't know what the fuck was happening to us when we got our powers, and—and now Wanda's gone, and I'm still here! And she's the one that deserves—deserved—a place like this. People like her. Friends. A father."
Peter finished, and put his head between his hands, gripping his hair, and then bent forward so that his face was between his knees, breathing hard.
Even knowing that each second that passed by probably felt like an eternity to his son, still, Erik hesitated. Peter had seemed so carefree when they'd first met, like nothing in the world could slow him down or diminish his spirit. But yet, here he was, struggling—drowning—and Erik didn't know how to save him.
Erik reached out his hand, unable to understand why the mere inches between them felt like a mile long chasm. Eventually, he let his hand drop back to his side, but he did finally manage the courage to speak.
"Peter—Pietro."
At the sound of his real name, Peter looked up. His eyes were red, but his face was dry, as though he had held onto his anger just enough to push back his grief.
"Can I call you that?" Erik continued.
After a moment Peter—Pietro—nodded.
"Pietro, I don't doubt that Wanda was deserving of everything you seem so intent on denying yourself, but just because she deserved them too and can't have them, doesn't mean that you don't still deserve them. I'm sorry that I wasn't there to help you—both of you—understand who you are. And I know you think that I can't possibly know you well enough to care about you, but the truth is that the thought of losing you scares me so much that part of me does wish you didn't exist, if only so that I could never face the possibility of losing you. And maybe it is odd that I feel so strongly toward you already, but I've seen and heard enough to know what kind of man you grew up to be . . . without me. Almost everyone in this school owes there life to you. And you stood against a nearly unstoppable mutant, even when it nearly cost you your life. I couldn't ask for a better person to call my son."
Pietro swallowed, and looked slightly like he would bolt from the room, if not for the state of his foot. "I didn't—stand up to him, not really. When I faced Apocalypse, I never really thought I was in any danger. I've always been too fast for someone to catch me but then he did and . . . I always thought—after Wanda—that if my time came early that would be okay, but when I thought I was gonna be decapitated, I wasn't brave. I was terrified. I didn't want to die. I just wanted my mom. And to see Mila—my little sister—again. And I wished I'd never left my basement."
"That doesn't diminish what you've done, or change how I feel about you. Anyone would have been scared in your position." Erik replied, trying to reassure him.
Pietro shrugged, as though he didn't quite believe that.
Erik opened his mouth to argue further with his son, but Pietro cut him off before he could speak.
"Erik?"
"Yes?" Erik asked cautiously.
"I think I'm gonna be sick."
And with that Pietro leaned over the side of the bed and vomited onto the floor, which was certainly one way to quickly end an emotionally charged conversation.
{Author's Note: True fact: the hardest part of writing this chapter was keeping track of if Peter was sitting up or lying down, so if I messed that up, please feel free to let me know, and I may try to fix it. Also, originally, I did not plan to have this scene at all, but then Hank showed up in the last chapter, and I was just like 'well now we gotta see how that plays out.' Lastly, the song Peter sings is Carry on My Wayward Son by Kansas, and the "We are the cure" line is from X-Men: The Last Stand.}